Father knows less: Gentrified gender roll-call, on the Expanded Plantation

“Father knows best!” -a beastly relic of a bygone error.

To subsidize vies to see subside strides towards tropes more transcendently natural, “He’s never good enough, no matter how he excels,” and, “She always more than enough, no matter how often she fails,” were deftly, deafly dealt as a delirious dual duel esteemed to be necessary and sufficient for producing men who rise to any and every occasion, and women who weather any downturn.

Yet endless crises, continually concocted to keep him on his toes and her on her knees, led many a man to give up and to seek, elsewhere, his soul’s food, else grind down to ineptitude — in either case condemning countless worn weary worried women to despised lives as common wives-in-common, each driven then by the whims of whomever would take her in from the cold, into the cold of limply filling in for the dead, dying or lying — the abandoned, else abandoning, men.

Then, to channel new-found need for suicide-staving denial, floods of films and texts fondly fed dreams long dead: A competent woman nurturing a disciplined man, so that, edified, he can strive to save the world. As the bell of available and availing men clanged by curve ever steeper, storytelling sank bit by bit ever deeper: First, into depictions of fearful women wailing generally for super men to bravely save the world; then storytelling sank more and more, until finally the meaning of ‘the world’ itself shrank to consist proudly and only of the wanton wants and whimsical worries of the manic woman featured in the filth as saved by increasingly effeminate men, whose pseudo-machismo — purposed merely for the masturbatory reverie of each sterile seething woman, and as a roadmap for the slow suicide of her male heirs — bespoke, above all else, an eerie, even downright feminine dearth of forethought.

“I’m going to die for her convenience!”

“No I’M going to die for her convenience!”

“Well I’m going to die for her MARGINAL convenience!”

“Then I’M going to die as but a precursor to an interlude which hints at a CHANCE for her to receive marginal convenience!”

Then the heroes, warring to win her smirk, beat each other to death; so the porcelain heroine, ascending, became a mongrel-factory for a few braggadocious ball-bouncing drug-addicts, on the Expanded Plantation.

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